


The Perfect Howl The Perfect Silence

by silver_blacker



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Inner Dialogue, Non-Graphic Violence, Physical Abuse, Self-Acceptance, Self-Hatred, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2426333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_blacker/pseuds/silver_blacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one-shot fic exploring Daryl's development from childhood to adulthood through depicting the Nine significant times that he has cried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Howl The Perfect Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the scenes are pure imagination, and some scenes are completely based on the author's own subjective interpretation of the show as an attempt to dissect scenarios and explain Daryl's inner thoughts. 
> 
> Nine times because, nine lives, remember?

Daryl Dixon does not cry. He would not allow himself to. A shed of a tear is an indication of weakness. It means you are a prey, sitting to be fed on. Preys have no place to stand in his world. Predators often loom around the corner wanting to devour the first thing that shows a sign of weakness. But in his forty years of manhood there were still times when he would fail to hold back the tears. 

 

**First time**

"Ya' gonna sit there, boy?" Pa sinks into the sofa and picks up the remote control. "Scoot!" He kicks the squatting four years old Daryl with his foot. Daryl loses his balance and falls sideway onto the ground, his cheek slamming right into the hard wood floor. 

 

The television is on with a press of Pa's finger. The living room is instantly filled with the noise from a sport programme. The room is not just a living room, but more like Daryl's bedroom since he is not allowed to have his own room as the youngest Dixon. The coffee table is where he usually does his homework, and the couch is where he sleeps during the night, although he has seen Merle doing something else rather than sleeping on the couch with a girl. But Daryl doesn't mind, not having his room that is, since Merle is often out like today or in his own room doing things he would not let Daryl know. Pa is never in the house, but when he is, like now, Daryl could not help but feel a bit invaded. 

 

But all Daryl could feel now is the burning pain on his cheek and in his mouth. He swears he heard a crack in his teeth when his head clashed with the carpet-less ground. Wabbling, Daryl pops himself up with his elbow. As he sits up, he could feel the warmth of the sticky liquid running down his throat from his bleeding gum. He would have cried out, but he knows the man dislikes hearing any form of whining from his children. 

 

"What'd I say, boy?" Pa barks as he throws the old newspaper from last week at him. Daryl swiftly flinches from the flying object. "Move your ass! You're blockin' the fuckin' TV!" 

 

Not wanting another kick, Daryl quickly shifts away to the corner and sits down, hoping his Pa would find him as unnoticeable as possible. 

 

Pa looks drunk, his breath stinking of cheap ale and the light blood stain on his white shirt suggesting the aftermath of a bar fight. Daryl dares not to infuriate him, knowing pretty much anything at this moment could provoke him into unbuckling his belt and granting his son a good long beating. 

 

But then Dary's eyes catch sight of his Legos model. It is sitting at where Daryl has left it, before Pa came barging into the room and forced him to back away. He was building a train, a red train, a tiny version of what he saw in one of those books at school. Red is not really his favourite colour, but red bricks are the ones he seems to own the most. Well technically he does not own anything. Whatever clothes or toys he has used to belong to Merle, or at least what is left from his big brother. It is fourtunate for him to find enough bricks of the same colour without needing to use a substitute. And there it is, his little red train, only a few pieces from completion. Daryl's gaze roams between his Pa and his train, wondering whether he could just quickly swipe his train towards him without drawing attention from the man.

 

Determined, Daryl lowers his body and begins crawling to his price. 

 

"You fucker, my mom plays better football than you." The words his Pa mumbles startled Daryl, but a glance at the man's direction and he knows he is still safe. Pa has had his cloudy eyes fixed on the small glowing television screen. 

 

Success. A smile creeps up onto Daryl's face as his fingers make contact with the smooth surface of the Lego blocks. 

 

"What's wrong with you lil piece of shit?" Without warning his wrist is caught in the big firm hand of his Pa. The man pulls him up and stares at him with his bloody eyes. "Didn't I say fuck the fuck off?" Pa digs his dirty yellow nails into Daryl's tender skin, drawing a silent gasp from him. 

 

Daryl still refuses to shed a tear, even when he could feel the pool of water forming under his eyelids. The pain, he could endure. Being born a Dixon means having high tolerance for pain. Even at the age of four he has already gotten so used to physical abuse that a swollen cheek or a knocked out tooth or a bruised wrist would be far from enough to make him cry. Pa despises tears, and the sight of them would only make the beating worse, that, Daryl has learnt from his brother. 

 

But then, Pa drops his gaze onto the red train at Daryl's feet. A crooked smile appears on his cruel face and without the slightest hesitation he slams his foot onto the model, the model Daryl has spent two weeks on from scavenging the right parts to finally building it. 

 

"No!" Before he could stop himself the word has escaped his lips and he has fallen onto the ground, desperately trying to resemble the scattered parts. What's worse, tears begin pouring out from his eyes and his vision becomes a blurry shade of red. 

 

Furiously, Pa grabs him on his shoulders and tosses him at the wall. 

 

Daryl then experienced the worst beating in his life, the scars on his back still visible to this very day. He ended up with a dislocated shoulder and a cracked open skull that required multiple stitches. Pa lied to the hospital saying he was in a bike accident. How could the doctors possibly believe him Daryl did not know. Perhaps they were not bothered to help this little redneck piece of trash, or perhaps they simply did not care. 

 

That was the only time Daryl had cried in front of his Pa, and he has learnt his lesson, in a hard and painful way, to never repeat the mistake again. 

 

 

**Second time**

The funeral was brief, hasty even. It was over when it just started. 

 

"Get out of m'way before I start kickin' your sorry little ass." The man unlooses his black tie and shoves Daryl aside. 

 

Daryl winces his nose as he walks away, sniffing in the familiar scent of alcohol from the man. Vodka, he suspects, which is a lot stronger than what the man would usually indulge himself in on a Sunday afternoon like this. But his intoxication would explain his absence during the ceremony. The man was nowhere to be found at his wife's funeral. After ordering Daryl to sit tight he departed the room, and showed up only afterwards all drunk to pick his son up. Not that anyone had any complaint about it, however. If the speech was left to him to deliver it would probably be a disaster. Fortunate enough the big brother was there and he stepped up to the stance, just when the seven years old Daryl was blushing in his seat wondering would he need to make the speech at his old man's absence. Daryl did not expect Merle to be there, for he claimed himself to be in juvenile detention. Thinking about it, it might be a smart excuse to get away from the family. Merle and his old man were at each other's throat the last time they met, and the big brother disappeared conveniently when the drunkard waddled into the funeral home, leaving Daryl alone again to their abusive father. 

 

Daryl steps into his room and closes the door behind him. He instinctively reaches out to lock it, but remembers this new house has no locks on any room door. He could only pray his old man would not barge into his room after he has wasted himself on the sofa. Daryl throws himself onto his bed, still with his black suit and sneakers on. The sheet is already dirty itself, a bit of durt from the bottom of his shoes would not hurt. He stares at the ceiling, watching the dim light from the light bulb flickering unsteadily. Daryl turns to lie on his side, his mind filled with the thoughts from the funeral.

 

Not many people came to the funeral in the good old memories of Mrs Dixon. The Dixons were never popular among the nieghbourhood. But two of the households were kind enough to come to the ceremony. One even had the decency to put on some formal clothing instead of the white trash combo of jeans and plaid shirt. Daryl is half certain if these families did not show up the room would have looked even extra empty, not that it could get any emptier however. The Dixons have no close relatives, and the only time Daryl has heard his old man mentioning a relative was when he was heavily drunk one time and bragged of mistakenly shooting his uncle at the knee. 

 

There were flowers, a cliche gesture of false condolences from the guests. But there was no coffin, for the body of his Ma was burnt down together with the house. They had a framed photo of her set up, put together with the very few belongings of hers they could manage to collect after the fire. In the picture Ma was young and smiling, showing off her white teeth with her red lipstick on. Daryl does not recall ever seeing his Ma with any makeup. He also does not remember seeing her smiling so happily either. The woman was always gloomy with a dark expression that haunted her surrounding. Her teeth in the picture looked fake as well. Ma's teeth were grey and yellow due to the cigarette that never left her hand; even at her very last breath she was holding a cigarette. The woman in the photo was unfamiliar to Daryl, the happiness she was showing not corresponding to the grumpiness of the woman he knew. Daryl felt he was attending the funeral of an entirely different woman as he was sitting there staring at the photo of a joyful woman who smiled back at him. 

 

Another reason why the ceremony was so brief was because of the host his old man hired. The guy seemed confused and unprepared. He smelled heavily like weed, the psychoactive drug Daryl knows Merle used to use before he moved on to cocaine. The host talked like an uneducated stammerer, making unfunny and offensive jokes that would have cost him his teeth if Mr Dixon was there. He was also why one family left half way through the ceremony, with the father angrily barging out after hearing one of the host's inappropriate comments about hunters and their wives. 

 

Honestly, Daryl is not particularly sad about Ma's passing. She was very much like her husband, except she was thinner and had a weaker punch. But her death means he would be even more alone now. With Merle gone all the time in juvenile jail, Daryl would be the only punching bag left in the Dixon household. Daryl is not sure if his old man's punch would become stronger or softer with his wife's passing, but judging from the way he had already gulped down a whole bottle of vodka it might very well be the former, after the enhancement of his drinking problem. 

 

So it is only him and Pa now. Daryl is suddenly hit with the realisation of complete isolation. An overwhelming sense of helplessness overtakes him and a drop of tear slides down his face without his permission. Shit. He is not even aware of the forming of a tear. Frustrated, he wipes off the liquid and tells himself this would be the last time he cry for a family member, even for the remotest reason.

 

 

**Third time**

He is scared. 

 

As the dusk of day approaches, Daryl grows even more afraid. He has been wandering in the woods for hours. He has felt the air turned cold, seen the sky gone dark, and heard the insects in the trees singing their tunes louder and louder, as if they are all whispering to each other betting on when will this boy just give up and die. 

 

It was a mistake to go into the woods. But he could not resist, could he? He woke up on the summer morning and found no one at home. The old man was out at work, rather surprisingly; and Merle was again locked away in juvenile jail, which their beloved father once commented was 'a cunt place for lil cunts only'. Being home alone is the most exciting thing that could happen to him. After all, the company of a Dixon is not something he would crave for. He leaped up from bed and went straight into the kitchen to munch on those nachos he has hidden away for almost a month. If the drunkard discovered them they would quickly turned into his beer snacks and be gone within a night. Daryl then turned on the television and caught up with those cartoons his friends in school have been talking about. He personally thought SpongeBob was overrated. After a few hours of pure entertainment he cooked himself a half decent meal and feasted on boiled potatoes and rabbit stew. Then an idea began budding inside him when he saw Merle's crossbow hanging on the wall. He has just learnt how to use the weapon and he deems himself quite a good shot. Feeling ambitious and courageous, he unhooked the bow and entered the woods behind his house. What could possibly go wrong? 

 

Daryl hears a branch snaps behind him. He jumps and turns around, only to be met with complete darkness. The night is upon him, and he is in the middle of nowhere, far from home, and completely alone. His body is wearied. When he realised he didn't know where he was he started running out of panic. But he guesses he ran the opposite direction, leading him even deeper into the woods and further away from civilisation. 

 

Daryl locates a tree and starts climbing it with his last remaining strength. Merle said higher ground is safer ground, and the first thing he needs now is a place where he could safely spend the night without fearing for his life. The potentials of starving or freezing to death seem less life threatening at the moment. Fortunately, he is a good climber. Quite effortlessly he is already mid-way up the tall bark.

 

  
_Give up_ , a voice abruptly interrupts his thoughts and says inside his head,  _just drop to the ground and lay there, you are too tired to move on_. 

 

Daryl climbs up another foot, ignoring the mocking voice that sounds oddly like his big brother's. 

 

  
_Give it up, you can't make it_. 

 

Daryl's foot slips. He slides down for half a heartbeat before his hands find a lump and hold on to it, hinging himself to the tree once again. 

 

  
_Just give up. What are ya doing anyway? This ain't a game for little pussies like you_. 

 

Daryl's every muscle is screaming and begging him to let go. His legs are sill hanging in the air so he kicks blindly in searching for a resting place. He would not dare to look down, and the part of the tree underneathe where his eyes can't see is suddenly all straight and smooth. He is not sure how much longer he could hold on for. His arms are about to give in to his weight. He feels cold sweat running down his neck and his hands are clammy, his fingers at the point of slipping forcing him to hold on to the bark tighter. The wood digs into his flesh and he smells the scent of blood in the air. 

 

  
_Oh Darlina, just give the fuck up_! 

 

His palms are bleeding. The mixture of blood and sweat are making his hands even more slippery. He slides down another inch. In fear he gasps, closing his eyes wishing this is all but a nightmare on a cozy summer night.

 

  
_Little baby Daryl dying in the forest_... The voice sings, the joy in its tone annoying and infuriating. 

 

"Shut up!" Daryl screams back in rage.

 

All of a sudden a flock of startled birds appear from the branches next to his head and fly straight into the cloudy sky. One slams into his face and knocks him backward. Daryl snarls, and reflectively his hands let go. He falls, landing heavily on the crossbow behind his back. He then jumps up and starts running, regardless of the terrible ache on his back that is about to break his spine in half. 

 

Daryl runs and he runs, making quick turns when he is about to run into trees, until the very last bit of the adrenaline in his body is gone and he is left with nothing but exhaustion. He attempts a few more steps before his knees hit the ground. He lays flat, the leaves and twigs under his head pricking his left cheek. He opens his mouth and sucks in the cool air. His head is spinning and in the dark he is blind. 

 

Gingerly he sits up, pressing his painful palms onto the ground for support. His back is killing him and his mouth feels dry. He removes the crossbow from his back, and hears a sad crack. If he broke it Merle is going to be so pissed when he found out. But then Daryl realises he is never going to be able to get home, and Merle won't have anyone to be pissed about. The thought haunts him. He curls up and buries his face between his knees. 

 

He sobs, at first quietly, but it turns into a wailing when he remembers no one could hear him anyway. He tilts his head backward and screams for his Pa, his Ma, his brother, anyone; his crying sounding even more tragic and heartbreaking in the open space. 

 

He cries for so long, until he runs out of tears and his chest begins to hurt. He knows it is pointless. No one knows he is here. He doubts if his father would even notice his absence. Daryl's cry for rescue is only a dinner bell for the predators that have came out of their caves. He could hear branches rustling in a distance and he swears he saw shadows peaking out from behind the trees. He is not afraid anymore. He has accepted the fact that he is going to die, and being eaten alive may even be a quicker death compared to dying of hunger. 

 

Sniffing his nose and with dried tears still on his face, Daryl crawls under a tree and lies down. He closes his eyes, his hands clutching tightly to the broken crossbow, and drifts into a light and restless sleep. 

 

**Fourth Time**

 

It happened so quick. Daryl does not have enough time to process it and Merle has already let go of the creature as it drops to the ground, dead, its neck snapped. 

 

"What'd I told ya 'bout pets, baby brother?" Merle takes out a cigarette from his pocket and lights it up with his lighter, his voice casual without a single hint of remorse. "They die, not like your good old brother here." He blows out a whisk of white smoke through his lips.

 

Daryl is speechless. He widen his eyes at the lifeless owl lying on the floor, its neck twisted in an eerie way. He could not believe what Merle just did. He fucking killed his bird, the bird he found in the woods two weeks ago with a broken wing. 

 

Daryl discovered the animal on a hunting trip. It had fallen onto the ground and it had fallen hard. He lowered his crossbow at the sight of it as he carefully walked up to it. It screeched at the approach of a stranger, flapping its wings wishing to take off. But it was too weak to move even an inch and its motion soon ceased in fatigue. Fearing it would become an easy prey for other animals Daryl picked it up and wrapped it in his vest. He carried the animal home and cared for it, without his dickhead father from knowing.

 

Daryl has always been fascinated by the idea of having a pet, but he knows the man would only say no and gives him a black eye instead. But with this owl, what was the odd of him being caught? Merle hadn't been home for a couple of weeks now, presumably managing his business in the city; the job so secretive that he wouldn't tell Daryl anything about it. Daryl once asked him what the job is about, and the big brother only laughed and said it was in the field of retailing. 

 

Daryl did not know much about owls, and was nearly clueless of their eating habit. They are hard to catch and only become active during the night, by when Daryl would already have gone home preparing whatever game he had for supper. But after some experimenting he found out he could feed it with snails and mice. The owl would refuse the food in the first few days, but eventually it gave in and gave Daryl its trust. It was making progress, finally able to move its wings and it even flew a decent foot or two before landing gracefully on Daryl's bed. That was when Merle came home and went into his room without knocking. He saw the owl standing on the shelf and snatched it. Daryl did not even have time to protest, and it was already dead with a turn of Merle's wrist. 

 

"You murdered it. You ass hole. You murdered my owl!" Daryl rasps and dashes forward, knocking his brother off his feet.

 

"Fuck!" Merle falls back and collides with the shelf behind. The wooden furniture collapses as books and empty soda cans and other trivial items all fall on top of him. An angry snarl and the big brother re-emergeres from the pile of junk as he lunges at Daryl.

 

They fight, swinging their fists and cursing at each other. Merle is at least two feet taller than Daryl and twenty pounds heavier. It is apparent why Daryl is the one who ends up lying on the ground gasping for air with a bleeding nose. Merle joins him as he sits down on the floor. 

 

"You know what Pa'd do to you if he found out." Merle pulls out another cigarette and lights it. His first one was lost in the chaos, probably sitting somwhere in the mess Daryl's room has become. "Hell, he'd make you eat it while it's still alive. You're a hunter, little brother. Hunters ain't keeping no pets." 

 

Daryl snorts at him. 

 

"C'mon you're fifteen. It's time I make a man out of ya." Merle passes his cigarette to Daryl. A moment of hesitation and Daryl takes it. He inhales the joint of tobacco, forcing himself not to cough or gag at the disgusting taste. But as the smoke fills his lungs, he feels his whole body relaxing in a way it never did before. "How 'bout you come to the city with me. I've got good business down town and you could learn a few things from your brother." A pause. "Fuck, you could get a dog even."

 

"I ain't want no dog." Daryl mumbles. 

 

Merle chuckles. "That's right. You shouldn't be putting no feelin' on nobody but your kin." 

 

"Oh fuck off." Daryl spits out a mouthful of blood and sits up. 

 

"Dry off your tears, baby brother." Merle takes the cigarette back from him and sticks it between his teeth. "Let's go huntin'." He pats him on his shoulder and stands up, leaving the room. 

 

Fuck. He was crying for the bird wasn't he? Daryl gapes at the dead owl, suddenly hating himself for wasting his goddamn time on it. He grabs the animal and throws it into the garbage bin. 

 

"Merle, wait up!" He picks up his crossbow and runs out of his room, while wiping his face off the blood and tears with his sleeve. 

 

 

**Fifth time**

 

Daryl presses down on one of the blind slats. The rain is heavy. He could barely see the flickering lamppost from across the street through the fogged up glass. He could make out the figure of a waddling pedestrian on the walkway outside his porch. But he couldn't tell who it is. He squints at the stranger, mulling over whether it might be one of his brother's troublesome buyers. The last one who came knocking made a huge scene. She barged through the door, demanding a pack of meth, with her eyes crazy and her clothes all dirty. Then Merle resolved the situation. But Daryl didn't know how. He left the house immediately when the meth head started cursing him in gibberish. To be frank, Daryl doesn't want to know how his brother handle situations like that. All that matters is the woman has never been seen again. 

 

Daryl tenses up when the man outside stands still and turns his head towards the house. Daryl is starting to get nervous. He doesn't understand how all these drug users found their house so easily. He has never told nobody where they live. Merle must have said something to someone with a big mouth when he was high. The big brother has the tendency of talking too much sometimes. Especially when he is drunk or after he has used a fair amount of crystal, words just fly off his mouth like bullets. 

 

Daryl's fingers slowly climb up to his belt to reach for his hunting knife. Merle is not here at the moment. If trouble comes knocking Daryl will have to take care of it himself. He bites on his tongue nervously, his eyes watching in high alert. 

 

After so long, Daryl exhales in relief when he sees the stranger outside passes out and drops onto the ground. It's not a buyer, after all. He could have a quiet and peaceful night all to himself. 

 

Daryl moves away from the window and gently rubs his fingers off the dust from the blind. He goes into the living room and fixes his gaze on the clock hanging on the wall. The hands say it is eleven minutes till midnight. Daryl knows the old thing is thirteen minutes slow, so that would make the actual time twelve o'two.

 

It is Sunday already, and Daryl just turned thirty years old. 

 

Daryl quietly sits down on the couch, and listens to the rain falling on his roof. He would kill just to hear again the sound of rain in a forest. He used to hide in the woods all day when he was a youngster, away from his drunkard father and the emptiness of the house. He loved it when it drizzled, with soft raindrops dripping down the leaves and grass. He didn't like the thunders that much though. He would never admit it but they still scare him a little. Living near the forest is the one of the very few things he missed about his childhood. But it has been fourteen years since he has gone back to the Georgia mountain, and he always feels something has died inside him for being that far away from nature. After moving into the city Daryl would wander off to the park downtown every now and then when Merle orders him to fuck off and give him and his new girlfriend some private time in the house. Daryl would then find a bench and lie down. If he is lucky enough he would fall asleep listening to the summer wind breezing through the trees, and wake up the next morning to the noise of early traffic. But quite often some patrolling cops would wake him up in the middle of the night and tell him to scoot. Then he would have to roam the streets of Atlanta until sunrise so that he could return to the house, only having to endure the sight of Merle and his girl both sleeping naked on the couch. 

 

Thinking of which, Daryl quickly stands up from where he is sitting and stares at the black fabric of the sofa. He can't help but feeling a bit disturbed when reminded he is sitting on the spot where his brother has fucked. It is a strange preference of his brother. He has a nice double bed in his room but he seems to enjoy doing the deed in the living room, which Daryl, as the little brother, has never asked him why. Daryl would not dare to even raise the topic. 

 

Daryl looks back at the clock. It's ten minutes past twelve, meaning he has spent the first ten minutes of his thirtieth birthday worrying about his safety and thinking about his brother having sex: what a great start to his midlife. But no, this birthday has already gone better than his last one. He was on the run with Merle last year. They were in a stolen car, and Merle was driving, with cops behind them. There got busted while making a deal with a drug lord. Some asshole snitched, and their hideout was exposed. Daryl remembers clutching to a bag of money while listening to his brother's swearing and the blast of a siren, which was almost as terrifying as the barking of a hell hound. But he also heard the radio lady saying they had just passed midnight, and instantly realised there was a great chance he could be spending his next ten to fifteen birthdays in a prison cell. But Merle ditched the police in an alleyway. The sound of the police cars distancing away was almost as sweet as jazz music. 

 

There are no cops behind his back this birthday, and he isn't spending it in a cell either, for which he is awfully grateful. But there are no party, no birthday presents, and definitely no friends or family around to celebrate with. Daryl is certain today will just be a normal day where he sits around drinking pepsi from the fridge while paying attention to the noise outside in case someone is trying to break in to steal his brother's stash, which has only happened twice but is enough to make the drug dealer paranoid. Merle will probably return, from wherever he is at right now, in the morning and just drop straight onto his bed. Then he will depart again in the evening to god knows where. If Merle is in a good mood he may throw Daryl a beer can along with some pot when he sees him. But if Merle has had a rough day with his customers he will just ignore his little brother entirely. 

 

Daryl is not expecting anything special anyway. It is not accustom for the Dixons to have birthday celebrations, not that Daryl would know exactly how an 'usual' birthday should go. Although the memory of the event has almost faded away in time, Daryl has been to perhaps one birthday party when he was a child. He remembers vaguely the sight of blue and green balloons attached to a white table, the sound of children's laughter, and the smell of freshly baked cookies. It was back when things were better. Better, not good. 

 

Daryl lets out an irritated sigh. What is wrong with him today, with all these nostalgic thoughts invading his mind like plague?

 

He spots a cigarette pack lying on the coffee table and decides to get a smoke. He grabs the pack and finds it empty. Angrily he throws it at the sofa. He then picks up the television remote control and swings it across the room. The appliance cracks open when it hits the wall, with batteries and pieces of plastic scattered all over the wooden floor. 

 

Daryl stands and stares at the mess he has made. 

 

Is this his life now? Is this what Daryl Dixon is going to do with the rest of his life, following his shit head of a brother and doing his drug work? He has lived for thirty years, no, not lived, more like existed. But in the past thirty years what has he accomplished? He has ran away from home three times, and in the last time he succeeded; He has broken into five homes in his lifetime, and none of his victims was made aware; He has held a man at knife point and made him yielded his wallet, then he successfully knocked the poor man out. 

 

Daryl drops to the floor, and holds his head in his hands to block out the louder noise of the rain on his roof. He sobs.

 

When he leaves this earth, there is nothing of him to be remembered for. There is no foreseeable future in this line of work. The biggest achievement he could have is to not get busted and be thrown into prison. He feels like a bird with its wings clipped, lying on the stone cold ground gasping every chance it could get to take off into the air, but in fact it is simply waiting to die. How cruel is fate.

 

He cries, until his tears run dry and the room turns cold. His bones are sore, but it is the tightness in his lungs that is making him the most uncomfortable. He struggles to stand until he has found his balance. The rain seems to have stopped as he makes way to the kitchen sink for a sip of water. 

 

Life goes on. 

 

He turns open the tap. 

 

 

**Sixth time**

 

All is lost. It is over. They are all going to die here in this prison. Too many good lives were lost: Amy, Jim, Dale, Sophia _,_  Lori; now T-Dog and Carol. Who knew the prison was going to be invaded by walkers. No one saw that coming. He didn't even have the chance to say goodbye. But truth be told, who would have the luxury of doing that anymore in this fucked up world anyway. People die all the time. He is surprised he hasn't gone numb already.

 

Whether it is out of frustration or sadness, Daryl has been sitting in one of those dark corridors for more than an hour. He growled at Oscar when the inmate told him to get some rest. He needed the time out. He needed to spend some time alone. He couldn't help but keep thinking how they died. They had seen T-dog, half devoured, barely recognisable if not for for his clothing. Damn. They could not even find Carol's body, presumably consumed by walkers, not even bits and pieces were left behind. He found her head scarf the other day. The cloth was on the ground with a horrible pool of blood beside it. Daryl avoids thinking whose blood it was, simply hoping the poor woman did not experience much pain, even though he knows death comes with great agony these days. 

 

One of those heavy metal doors across the corridor keeps opening and shutting, with a dead fat walker in front blocking it. Fucking walker, probably missing a few limbs inside already but still trying to push the door open to eat him alive. But it seems to be failing at escaping the room, and so he decides to pay it no mind. 

 

Except the head scarf Daryl also found Carol's knife. It was sticking out of some walker's neck. Daryl would like to think Carol didn't go down without a fight. She must had cut her way through multiple walkers before being... The idea is proven dreadful. 

 

Daryl toys with the knife, stroking the handle with his thumb. Is this the last thing Carol touched? Did she have her slender fingers tightly clasped onto the weapon as she swung it at the walkers' faces? Daryl holds the knife in his hand, feeling the weight of it. It is a decent knife, a very suitable weapon for Carol. 

 

The door closes after a loud bang, and a suffocating silence hangs around the place. The walker has given up already, eh? Well it is about goddamn time. 

 

Daryl carefully trails down the edge of the knife with his finger. The blade is sharp. He has seen her sharpening it in her spare time. She had the attentiveness of a hunter.  _Always keep your weapons accurate and deadly; A blunt weapon is a useless weapon: Hunter's Guide 101._  Daryl imagines she had never picked up anything more than a kitchen knife before the world went to hell. Daryl remembers first laying his eyes on her: skinny, frail, hidden under her husband's shadow like a scared little cat. Oh how she had evolved, from a victim who would not dare to say or do anything against her abuser's will to a woman who would step up and defend herself. 

 

Fuck. The knife cut through his skin and a drop of blood drips down from the wound. He lifts his hand up and sucks up the blood. The action brings back some pleasant memories. They were on top of a tipped over van in the yard. First night in the prison. They had not even cleared out the cell blocks yet. She brought him food, knowing he would spend the night empty-stomached if she didn't do so. She always noticed things didn't she? He was eating when she spoke of her painful shoulders, something to do with how the rifle recoiled. He wanted to help her with that, and so he put down the plate and started sucking his fingers to clear the grease off them _._  It wasn't until a few seconds into the message that he saw she was smiling, almost shyly at him. He sensed a blush threatening to show up on his face and he quickly lowered his hands, saying they should better get back to the group. 'Want to screw around?' was her response. He dismissed it, out of embarrassment. Then they both laughed off the subject.

 

Before Daryl knew, he is sobbing. Carol is dead.  **Dead**. And there is nothing he could do about it. He drops the knife and holds his legs together, and weeps, silently. He bites on his lips, trying to constrain the sound he is making. He is glad no one is around to see him like this. He has to be the strong one in the group and he couldn't let anyone know he has been crying. He holds himself tighter as his whole body trembles. 

 

Sadness turns into anger. Daryl picks up the knife again and plunges it into the concrete ground. He is mad at this world. He did not believe it could get any uglier before, but he was wrong, so so wrong. He plucks the knife out, only to throw it back in again. Why does he keep losing people like this, huh? Is he not doing enough? He tried so hard in the searching for Sophia. He took an arrow in his waist and a bullet to his forehead. But the little girl couldn't be saved. She turned. Is this the way the world had decide to mock him, to piss on his hard work? 

 

The walker locked inside the cell begins banging on the prison door again. Daryl ignores it.

 

Fuck. Why did everything he does always turn out to be meaningless? He went back to the city for Merle, risking his and others' lives, only to find his big brother's severed hand lying on the roof top. Merle is probably dead already, or worse, turned. Daryl imagines his brother walking around like a walker, dragging his every step, his eyes empty and hungry, his lips red with blood dripping down his opened mouth after tearing a living man apart with his hands. It is a sight Daryl never wish to see. He is half relieved to know he would never get to witness Merle in such condition. He prefers to keep his big brother's old image in his head: invincible and unbeatable. 

 

Damn it, why do all these dead people keep haunting his mind? Daryl finds himself stabbing the floor with the knife repeatedly. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

 

Enough. The walker behind the door is annoying the fuck out of him. Daryl swings his arm around and plunges the knife into the wall behind him two times. He rises, and furiously he kicks the metal door. He does not know what would that achieve. But he is angry, so it doesn't matter. He storms away, decided to leave the creature be for killing walkers who aren't doing any harm would only be a waste of energy. But then an absurd thought crosses his mind: what if this is the asshole who killed Carol? He stops, suddenly enraged by the mere knowledge of the existence of a walker around him. He goes back to the door. He couldn't believe what he is about to do. It is ridiculous and pointless. He holds the knife between his teeth as he moved the fat walker on the floor away. 

 

_This is for Carol._

 

He readies himself into an engaging position. Then he opens the door. 

 

 

**Seventh time**

He knew it was him when he saw it using only its left hand. He knew it, but he would not believe it. He could not. He begins pacing, watching as it is sitting on the grass feasting on some kid, idle of his presence. Eventually, it lifts its head. A chunk of human flesh slides down through its teeth when it ceases its chewing. It locks gaze with him and licks its lips. That is the moment when everything crumbles inside him.

 

Tears come up to his eyes, blurring his vision, but not enough for him to not recognise the very familiar face of what was once his brother. It stands up, rather unsteadily, and starts making its way towards him. It didn't seem to be aware of any unbalance when it almost tripped itself over the dead kid's corpse, its eyes set on its price: him. Daryl's feet take root on the ground. His first instinct to the approach of a walker is to shoot it in the face, but he could not move. The crossbow in his hand seems too heavy to lift all of a sudden. He lets himself cry, as tears slide down his cheeks and onto his clothes. He lowers his gaze and sees the blood stain on its white shirt. There is an apparent bullet wound on its chest, the blood spilling out and dying the shirt with scarlet red. 

 

It groans, out of hunger, as it waddles towards him. The tears become uncontrollable. Daryl backs away from it, unwilling to verify this terrible reality. His brother turned, the one who said he would be there for him, the one who made promises of protection. It moans again, louder this time. 

 

"No!" With tears in his eyes Daryl dashes forward and pushes it on its shoulders. It falls back a few steps, but still persisting on its pursue. 

 

  
_Stop,_  Daryl screams in his head _, stop._  But it keeps coming, with a hollowness that does not belong to Merle in its dead eyes. Merle was nothing like that. He was determined, his actions forever driven by his own convictions. His intentions weren't always good, but he had never lived a day in his life not to the fullest. This creature that has his face is an empty shell, a combination of flesh and bones, and nothing more.

 

It is closing the distance between them, its whole body tilting onto its right side, the side where Merle's metal blade is attached to. 

 

Daryl does not try to resist his tears. This is his brother, someone who he had relied heavily on in his first forty years of life. He was his only family, his only friend, and one of his many enemies. Daryl pushes it again, and it backs away much further this time. 

 

But it is still coming, like an over-vivid nightmare. Daryl's sight is all blocked by tears, and he sees only a blur of an object that takes the form of a human advancing forward. But as Daryl looks at the approaching creature he is overwhelmed by guilt, remembering in many occasions he had wished for his brother's death, wished that he would be gone from this earth, especially after the nights where he would come home drunk and decided to beat the shit out of his little brother for no reason, only to promptly forget about the whole incident in the morning. But Daryl couldn't hate him, not truly. He used to be the only one that would show him even the faintest act of kindness. He taught him how to survive. Merle was a survivor, wasn't he? Daryl's stubborn big brother had rubbed shoulder with death countless times, and he always managed to get away. But not this time. 

 

Daryl cries out loud and lunges forward to knock it down with him. It falls onto the grass, but it doesn't seem aware of the falling as it stretches its arm into the air, still trying to grab him. So up close Daryl could smell the unique scent of Merle from its body, combined with the horrid scent of decay. Without any other thoughts Daryl pulls out his knife from his belt and stabs it. It snarls, the sound its throat is making unfamiliar and strange to his ears. 

 

Daryl yells, like a wounded beast, all the promises and lies his brother had told ringing in his mind, all the repressed feelings come pouring out of him.  _You said you would be there for me. Ain't nobody but your big brother, that's what you said. You lied, you fucking liar. You couldn't be anywhere for me when you're dead could you? You are dead corpse now, dead corpse. I exceeded you. I live, and you didn't. All the words you said, they ain't have no meaning now. You are dead. Dead._  


Daryl stabs it until its face becomes a messy chunk of red flesh and blood, until there is nothing left that could remind him of Merle, until the dead man ceased its motion and lies on the ground, unmoving.

 

Daryl rolls over to lay on his back, panting, gasping for air as he stares at the sky above his head. The tears are still dripping down his eyes. He didn't know he could cry for so long. His chest feels tight, and his face hurts. Suddenly he wants to die. He wants to just lay there and die with his brother. If there is a walker nearby he would even welcome it. The Dixon brothers had caused enough trouble already and no one would miss him, just like no one would miss Merle. 

 

  
_I can't lose you too_ , a woman's small voice creeps into his head, along with the image of her watery blue eyes looking at him. He remembers how he froze when she said that, his raging mind suddenly going blank. Out of embarrassment he acted out violently, the only way he knew how to resolve awkward situations like that. He apologised later, and she forgave him. It is not usual for him to admit his own fault, but he always feels at ease when he is with her. She understands him, perhaps even more than he understands himself.

 

Daryl soothes his breathing and stares at the clouds as he raises his hand to clear away the tears from his eyes.

 

Carol is waiting for him at the prison for him to come back. She will be holding little ass kicker, glancing out the gate anticipating the sound of his bike engines, at least that is what Daryl hopes for. 

 

After so long, Daryl sits up, his head turned away to avoid the bloody sight of his brother's corpse. He needs to go back, to Carol, Rick, and Judith. He needs to go home.

 

He swings his crossbow onto his back and walks away, not giving the body on the ground another glimpse.

 

 

**Eighth time**

 

The prison is gone, invaded. The cells must have already been flooded with growling walkers, their dead eyes gazing at the grey walls, but they cannot see, not really. They just look, and stare, into nothingness, as they wait for a sound that would trigger them into dragging themselves to the source. Among them may very well be some friendly faces, or what were used to be friendly. The vivid image of Rick crawling on his stomach as he moans his way to a feast of dead bodies makes Daryl's stomach turn. He flips onto his other side, trying to chase that terrifying image away. 

 

A twig snaps under his weight. He slams his eyes open to see if the noise has waken up the blondie. No, she is still lying opposite to him across the dying fire, her back facing him. He could not tell if she is truly asleep. She has been curling up in that position for quite a while now, but he has yet to hear a single snore, or any other indication that she is not wide awake having troubled thoughts like he is. The girl has been quiet since they got out. But Daryl would not blame her. Witnessing one's father being decapitated like that would definitely mess people up. Daryl starts to think how would he behave if he saw his old man killed in front of his very own eyes, butchered like an animal. Then he realises he doesn't give a damn. Just like Merle once said, even if that sick bastard did not die in that car crash, he might eventually want to drive a truck over to knock him dead. That painless quick death of his was not enough to atone for his sins. Merle said the man deserved to die five times, each time a new way of dying and all involving pain and suffering. Daryl has always thought that was cruel of his big brother, too dark even for the drifter's taste. 

 

Daryl stares at the spine of the girl, and notices her shoulders are trembling slightly. He wonders if she is crying, or if is it because of the midnight cold air. He weighs through the idea of perhaps giving her his vest, since he does not have his poncho with him they have very little to keep warm with, but he dismisses the notion quickly, thinking it would be rather out of the blue to offer. Besides, if she is indeed crying what the hell is he supposed to do?

 

Daryl does not know what a healthy father-son relationship should be like. He has never liked his old man, hated him even. Daryl's whole life has gone past without a fatherly figure there to guide him, to teach him right from wrong. He is sure not all fathers are like his own. He had seen the way Hershel cared for his girls, and how his face glowed in pure happiness when he was with them. Daryl could only guess how it would have felt to have someone you could completely trust and rely on. That is what family is for, right? Well the Dixons had surely done a lousy job.  

 

Daryl turns back to lie on his other side, away from the girl as he looks into the darkness of the woods. He does not feel safe here. They do not have barbed wires, or anything that could work as security fences. Any walker could just easily stumble upon them and make this night their last. 

 

Does it matter though, Daryl thinks, if everyone is dead then what is the point of living? Can't do anything anymore without people, that's what he told Merle one time. He does not want to survive, he wants to live. He hates being chased around everyday fearing a walker may be lurking behind him. If this is their last night then so be it. He has nothing to lose.

 

Daryl hears a muffled whimper and a sniff of a nose behind him. She is undoubtedly crying now. He reconsiders the idea of lending her his vest. But hell, what good would it do to her? He cannot help. If she is grieving then he better lets her grieve, for her father and for her sister. They didn't see anyone when they escaped. Heck, they might very well be the last people alive. Daryl shuts his eyes again, and his thoughts float back into the past when they were still in Atlanta. The mountain was a peaceful place, away from the city and away from the walkers. But they had to change camp eventually. There isn't a permanent safe house anymore. They all go down at one point or another. The group had been in the prison for over a year, and it almost made him believe this could ultimately be their final shelter, almost. But he was not expecting the downfall to come so quickly. They thought the threat the governor posed had been eliminated, and stability would finally arrive. Well, this world has its own way of mocking their naivety. 

 

Everyone he knows dearly are dead. Daryl lets out a silent sigh, feeling alone and lost. Rick is dead, lil ass kicker is dead, Glenn is dead. Everyone he knows-- Carol. Carol was not in the prison when the attack came. She is possibly still out there somewhere. This thought ignites a little spark of hope within him, only to die down quickly when he realises it makes no difference: he will never see her again. Rick banished her days before the attack. She could be miles away by now. Even if she may one day return to the prison there is nothing left but a graveyard. Would she think he is dead and grieve for him then, just like Beth is grieving for her family? He hopes she would. He hopes she would cry and crumble onto the ground, only to stand back up again stronger and tougher. Then he remembers Carol may very well be dead as well. One woman alone in this dog eat dog world, her odds are aganinst her. He wants to believe Carol is fine. She has a car, sufficient supply, and a determination. She will be fine, right? 

 

Daryl rubs his eyes, the hollowness inside him growing and growing. He would have gone after Carol if the prison was not under attack. Shit, he does not care what Rick said about her. Carol is not a murderer and he knows it. Everyone knows it. Rick must have lost his goddamn mind. How dare he just cast her away like that, like she is not the one of the few who has been with them since Atlanta, like she is not the one who basically took care of Judith when he was mentally absent in mourning for Lori. Rick made a decision based on his self-interest. He did not even consider Daryl's feelings. Did he not have a say in this? If the group decided to banish Lori Daryl wonders would Rick just accept it like it was nothing? 

 

Daryl is getting angry at his dead friend, and before any prevention could be done tears have already rolled down his eyes and onto his temple, wetting his arm beneath him. He blinks the tears away and scrubs his face furiously. He did not make a sound did he? He wouldn't want Beth to know he has been crying. He does not want her to see him as an emotional person. She needs a protector, someone to keep the walkers away, and she wouldn't feel any safer with him crying. Daryl empties his mind, and has successfully put a stop to the tears. But his heart aches, and the pain lingers, like something is amiss.

 

The world around is simply gone.

 

 

**Ninth time**

Beth hastily walks up to the walker pinned on the tree and shoves her knife into its forehead. Chunks of rotten brains and dark blood squirt from the walker's head with the quick retrieval of her knife. 

"Why the hell did you do that for?" Daryl confronts her in his raspy voice. He turns and faces her as she moves away from the walker. The foul smell of decayed flesh are filling his nostrils. "We were having fun." 

 

The young girl seems agitated. "No, you were being a jackass. If anyone found my dad--"

 

"Don't." Daryl raises a threatening finger at her. She is walking on thin ice here. Her little so-called drinking game has already angered him, and he is not putting up with her shit any more. She can't just compare this with her dad. That is just wrong. Hershel is well-respected, and this fucking walker here has never done them any good. What is her problem? "Not even remotely the same."

 

"Killing them is not supposed to be fun." She steps forward and says loudly. 

 

He pushes back and forces her to back away. He refuses to have his personal space invaded. She is pissing him off. There is a very primitive and animalistic instinct insider him telling him to hurt her, but he presses down that urge. He needs to believe he is better than that. "What do you want from me girl, huh?"

 

"I want you to stop acting like you don't give a crap about anything," She yells at him, the look of anger on her face never seen before. She has always been so gentle and mild around Judith. Daryl does not understand why must she make a fuss out of this. "Like nothing we went through matters, like none of the people we lost meant anything to you. It's bullshit."

 

"Is that what you think?" He calmly rebuts. 

 

"That's what I know."

 

"You know nothing."

 

"I know you look in me and just see another dead girl." She shouts, her eyes sad but angry. Daryl is slightly taken aback. "I am not Michone. I am not Carol. I am not Maggie. I survive and you don't get it coz, I am not like you or them. But I made it. And you don't get to treat me like crap because you are-- afraid." 

 

  
_Afraid._  Is that what this is all about? Is this what she is accusing him of? Afraid? Daryl mocks the idea. She doesn't know him, and he doesn't know her. She is pretending she is an expert on this matter, like her being here could solve all his problems. This girl is as ignorant as she looks. 

 

"I'm afraid of nothing." He glares at her, his face merely inches away from hers. 

 

She is frightened. Her lips are pressed tightly together as if she is about to cry. She wants to run, he knows, back into the arms of her loving father and sister, away from this uneducated redneck scumbag.  _Who is the one being afraid here, little girl?_   He is surprised she hasn't fled yet. 

 

  
_Oh wait_ , Daryl thinks cruelly,  _she has no one to flee to_.

 

"I remember," Beth composes herself and quietly says. He could tell she has gathered all her strength to talk back at him. "When that little girl came out of the barn, after my mom," She pauses. Daryl's mind travels back to the time when he saw Sophia stumbling out of the barn, and heard the painful screaming of Carol. Sophia's death was the result of his own incompetence. But no, Beth has no right to bring this up. "You were like me." Stop, he wishes to say. He does not want to hear a single more word. The failure to find Sophia was his fault. He felt responsible, and he is not willing to hear this accusation from the Greene girl. His knees feel weak. He flinches and turns his back on her. But she is not giving up. She pursues him and shouts, "And now god forbid you let anybody get too close."

 

"Too close huh?" He points at her, feeling the rapid beating of his heart in his chest. He was about to let this all go away, but well, she just has to humiliate him doesn't she? "You know all about that. You lost two boyfriends and you can't even shed a tear. Your whole family is gone all you care is to go look out and for some booze like some dumb college bitch." He waves his arm around like a mad man as he yells. The second his words leave his mouth he knows he has said too much, and he is pouring oil on a fire. But he is choosing to toss away his conscience.    

 

This conversation is all outrageously ironic. She barely reacted when he informed her of Zach's passing. She brushed it off like he was talking about the goddamn weather. And here she is standing here accusing him of shutting himself off. When the prison fell, all she wanted to do was to escape from reality and to get herself drunk. He didn't question her, and he even helped her find the liquor. She is selfish and carefree but she does not acknowledge it. Who is she to tell him what to do or how to feel? 

 

"Screw you. You don't get it." 

 

"No you don't get it!" He raises his voice and howls. He has had enough of this nonsense. He is tired of her living in her tiny bubble, as if everything is just rainbow and sunshine and her family is only gone for a long vacation. She needs a dose of the harshness of reality. "Everyone we know is dead!"

 

"You don't know that!" She screams. 

 

"Might as well because you ain't never going to see them again!"  

 

Beth doesn't respond. She stands there, taking shallow breaths like a wounded animal.

 

He continues on his rampage. "Rick-- You ain't never to going to see Maggie again!" 

 

"Daryl just stop!" She reaches out and grabs his arm.

 

"No!" He draws back like he has been burnt. He turns away from her and stares at the ground. "Got the governor to ride up to our gates." His voice is starting to quiver. He pants for a while, breathing in the hot air. "Maybe if I... w--wouldn't stop looking... Maybe because I gave up. That's on me."

 

"Daryl--" She steps forward and attempts to touch his hand.

 

Once again he cowers and withdraws himself. He rethinks about all the lives that his stupidity has cost. It wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for him. Michonne insisted on locating the governor, and if Daryl has aided with her search for a bit longer, maybe the prison would still stand, maybe everyone would have lived. The blood is on his hand. "And your dad," Daryl feels suffocated to admit it. "Maybe... Maybe I could have done somethin'."

 

Abruptly Beth comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his torso. Daryl is slightly shocked. He half expected her to scream at him, hit him even. He would have accepted that. But this intimacy is too much for him. He remembers her hugging him last time, but it was in a different life when everything was not in constant turmoil. He was not prepared for the embrace, just as he isn't now. He is debating whether or not to push her away when he looks up, and sees the sun shining brightly at him and the cloudless sky that is in a beautiful shade of blue. Her arms tighten around him as she presses her cheek onto his back, her skin warm against his. A heartbeat later he yields to her touch, and bows his head as his tears and his oppressed guilt begin flooding out. 


End file.
